Page 12 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

I don’t enjoy starting his morning with an argument, but my son has always had a talent for poor timing.

Nathan Jr. storms into my office without knocking, drops into the chair across from my desk, and immediately starts talking before I’ve even finished reviewing the patient chart in front of me.

“I need a favor.”

I don’t look up yet. I sign the last line on the discharge order, close the folder, and set it neatly on the edge of the desk before I lift my eyes to him. “You need many things,” I pointedly say.

He frowns at me and smooths the front of his Armani. The boy looks good in a suit. Always has. The Clarke name opens doors, and he’s spent most of his adult life walking through them like the world owes him a welcome.

“I need money,” he says.

I lean back in the chair and fold my arms, letting the silence sit there for a second while he pretends not to notice. “How much?”

“Fifty.”

“Thousand?” I raise a brow at him.

“Yes.”

I lock my gaze on his eyes and refuse to give him the pleasure of looking away. “You walked in here before eight in the morning to ask me for fifty thousand dollars?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s an investment.”

“That’s a creative word for it.”

His mouth tightens, and I watch the irritation build behind his eyes while he shifts forward in the chair. “You know the foundation gala is coming up. There’s a donor I’ve been cultivating, and if I close this properly we could move the hospital into an entirely different funding tier.”

I tap one finger against the desk. “And you need fifty thousand dollars to impress him?”

“It’s not that simple.”

It usually is. Nathan Jr. stands and starts pacing across the office. He does that when he’s nervous. The boy has never liked sitting still when the conversation turns uncomfortable.

“You have the money,” he reasons with me. “You wouldn’t even notice it gone.”

“That’s not a good enough reason.”

“It should be.”

I tilt my head and study him for a moment. The resemblance still catches people off guard. Same eyes. Same height. Same build. When we stand next to each other at hospital events, strangers assume they’re looking at a younger version of me. Life has a sense of humor, because he’s not remotely related to me.

“You’re not getting fifty thousand dollars,” I tell him with a sigh.

His head snaps toward me. “Why not?”

“Because we both know it’s not for the gala. You’ll burn through it in three weeks and come back asking for more.”

He stomps his foot on the floor, which is very on brand for him. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s for your own good.”

He lets out a short laugh that doesn’t carry any humor. “You’ve always thought the worst of me.”

“No,” I reply calmly. “I’ve simply watched you grow up.”

For a moment he doesn’t move, and the office goes quiet except for the distant noise of the trauma floor waking up outside the glass wall. Nurses walk past with coffee cups. Interns rush by holding charts like their lives depend on them.

My son stares at me. “You know,” he says slowly, “you’ve never actually liked me very much.”